


Ten Sherlock Works

by anathemagerminabunt



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Supernatural
Genre: Awkwardness, Crossover, Drug Use, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-23
Updated: 2012-10-23
Packaged: 2017-11-16 22:19:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 1,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/544461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anathemagerminabunt/pseuds/anathemagerminabunt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ten various, unrelated Sherlock works (including one crossover with Supernatural) that I wrote as part of a fundraiser.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“So then, get this,” John says, reaching across the table to toss a handful of peanuts into his mouth, “he just hands me this decomposing penis. I'm standing there, halfway through making an omelet and wondering if I can actually get him to eat a few bites if I leave out the onions, and suddenly I have some dead guy's cock in my hand.” He takes a swig. “Who even _does_ that?”

“Sherlock,” Lestrade provides unironically. “Sherlock does that.”

“Yeah.” John sighs, a smile crossing his lips. “It's almost sweet, actually. I think it was his version of giving flowers.”


	2. Chapter 2

It's been years since he's last gone on the prowl, but it takes no time to find what he needs. Sherlock's knowledge of the city makes it laughably easy to find a deserted place to indulge and do his best to not _think_. He fails, miserably, and by the time he's staggering into the flat, his eyes are distant, glazed.

“When Mycroft interrupted my date to say you needed my help,” John's voice startles him, “ I thought, god forbid, that you were injured. Instead--”

“John--”

“Don't.” His voice is dangerous, poisonous. “I'm going upstairs.”

Sherlock remains, alone.


	3. Chapter 3

With unsure footing Sherlock steps across the threshold, his hand tightening around the door frame. It took him a few false starts to make it upstairs, but he did, despite the blood that's still running from his head and into his eyes. With a sharp inhale, he swipes his arm across his brow, wincing. His head is killing him and there's still the matter of the accomplice to solve, though there's nothing Sherlock can do on that front until morning. Maybe if he just sits down for a bit...

This is not how he envisioned his return from the "dead".


	4. Chapter 4

Entangling yourself with the dear doctor, brother? My, my. MH

Piss off. SH

I'm merely looking out for your welfare. You may not wish to believe it, but I do have your best interests at heart. MH

Piss. OFF. SH

Does he know, Sherlock? Have you told him? MH

I can't. Please, leave this be. SH

One day, the adrenaline rush will no longer be enough for him. He will leave. MH

Do you think that thought doesn't haunt me? SH

Who will pick up the pieces when that happens? Me? MH

Who says I want them picked up? SH


	5. Chapter 5

“I'm heading out,” John announces, slipping his coat over his shoulders.

“Mmm.” Sherlock lowers his book, eying John. “We really must discuss how you insist on repeatedly cheating on me.”

John freezes, halfway through the door. “What? Sherlock, we're not-- we're not dating. You know that, right?”

“We're not?” He sounds genuinely surprised. “We spend most of our time together, we live together, and we engage in romantic rituals like dinner. Are you sure?”

“Of course I'm--” Pausing, John curses low under his breath. He slips off his coat, turning for the stairs. “I'll go call Janice and cancel.”


	6. Chapter 6

It is a sweet death, easier than most by far. He is an old man by this point, one of the last of his generation, and he passes in a bed surrounded by friends and family. He couldn't ask for a better way to go.

Afterward, John finds himself (much younger and whole again, like he was during those days in Baker Street) in a large, white room, empty save for a lone door at the far end and the figure of a man beside it.

“You waited?” John asks as he approaches.

“Of course,” Sherlock replies, joining him. “Always.”


	7. Chapter 7

“You felt something for her,” John says. “You wanted her.”

“Of course not. Don't be absurd.”

John shakes his head. “No, no, you did. I saw it. You may think I'm an idiot, but I do see some things. You wanted Irene.”

Sherlock snorts, derisive. “I wanted to fool her. Clearly I succeeded in fooling you too.” He cocks an eyebrow. “Why? What does it matter to you?”

“It doesn't. No reason.” John turns back to his paper, cheeks flushed. He is unwilling to admit that if _she_ managed to catch Sherlock's interest, perhaps he might also stand a chance.


	8. Chapter 8

It is the age difference that bothers Lestrade most. Who would want a washed-up, divorced, old detective like himself? He'd be lucky if she didn't laugh him out onto the street.

But still, Lestrade finds himself unable to think of anyone but her. He relishes when his work dictates a trip to the morgue. She's a workaholic like himself and he figures there's a good chance she'll still be around.

He's in luck. “Listen, Molly. I was wondering.” He coughs. “Would you like to maybe get some coffee sometime? With me?”

“Would I!” Molly winces. “I mean, yes. I would.”


	9. Chapter 9

“You will look out for him, won't you.” It is not a question, not the way Mycroft says it, tapping his umbrella against the sole of his shoe. “I would hate for there to be... unforeseen consequences.”

John laughs, scornful. “Oh god. This is your version of the speech, isn't it?”

“The speech?”

“The 'take care of my brother or I'll kill you' speech,” John tells him, hands shoved into his pockets.

“Oh, I don't think either of us actually needs for me to say it,” Mycroft drawls.

“No,” John agrees. “You don't. Because I would never intentionally hurt him.”


	10. Chapter 10

There is a dead man, a ghost, standing casual and devil-may-care on the other side of their cheap motel door. He is gaunt, skeletal and stringy, looking devastated and as ruined as a man can, but John Winchester raised no fools.

When the splash of holy water brings up no results and the various charms and amulets also prove useless, Sherlock quirks his lips. “Are you quite done? I require assistance and we haven't much time.”

“Hold your horses,” Dean orders, knife glinting in his hand. “Mind if we slice your arm open and rub rock salt in the wound?”

***

“So,” Sam finishes, as Sherlock reaches the end, “to save everyone, you jumped. But we- _everyone_ thought you were dead.”

“As they should.”

Wordlessly, Dean fills a glass with whiskey and slides it over. Sherlock shoots him a look of disgust.

“So this agent of this Moriarty fellow-- he's in Arizona, and you need our help to kill him?” Dean asks. “Because you think he's a wizard?”

Before Sherlock can say anything more, Sam cuts in, “Wait, if you're alive-- oh, god. Does John know?” The lack of response is response enough. “Oh, _god_.”

The silence that follows is deafening.


End file.
